My family loves natural disasters and I propose that our one common attribute that does not thwart the core of Mr. Darwin’s theory is our shared proclivity towards acts of nature: mudslides, snowstorms, tornadoes, forest fires and hurricanes.As a child, I remember my parents taking much pleasure in our home design with many hours focused on multiple routes to the basement. Paying little attention to the substantial living quarters they would walk the grounds and inspect every nuance of the future tornado shelter. Drenched in knee-deep mud, my dad would proclaim, “Yep, this baby’s going nowhere.” Estelle’s dainty and diamond-clad hands rub the concrete walls like most women rub mink. Obviously, my parents would have thrived in the post-World War II craft of bomb shelters.
This trait can be traced to my grandparents. Their own natural instincts for travel were always heightened upon hearing reports of inclement weather. A forecast of flooding would easily invoke a three-hour back roads drive to Balsam or Boiling Springs. Although our summer beach time was carefully rationed to avoid over exposure to the sun, my grandmother endorsed standing hours upon end on rickety piers during strong storms. To this day, a coastal getaway has me dutifully packing a heavy raincoat.
Apples, or in our case, hail storms, fall not far from trees. When being courted by graduate schools, I neglected the milder climates for the potential winter antics of Minnesota. Sadly, the natives void of much emotion and acclimated to bitterness and snowfall didn’t share my passion for traversing the terrain. “Come on guys, wouldn’t a nice drive around the lake be great during this record-breaking snowstorm?”
Estelle has easily transferred this trait to the art of vacation planning. My grandmother, Big Mama, taught her to plan by asking such easy and natural questions as “is the resort near a volcano? When was the last recorded mudslide? What are the chances for seismic activity?” Estelle is a quick study. Annually, she and my father cruise for several weeks from Miami to Belize. This is their time to unplug, neglect the worry of aging elders and enjoy a vacation that resembles a hybrid of the cast of Dynasty cruising on the Pacific Princess. Cat fights are optional. Embracing our family values, they religiously embark for the high seas during the height of hurricane season.
This usually serves no problem. “I would hardly call Hurricane Arthur a hurricane.” Estelle pronounces the word ‘hurricane” in a drawl that places harrowing emphasis on the first syllable while subsequently lessening the effect of the next two until the last syllable is soft, welcoming and void of the harsh long vowel sound which is replaced by the lazy schwa so common in Southern speak. Who needs fear and who needs that final e?
Worry is never an option since, wherever we are in the world, we call between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 9:00 p.m., Eastern Standard Time. Most sensible families operate on the motto of No News is Good News. However we operate with the understanding that no phone call is the equivalent to kidnapping, spontaneous combustion or succumbing to a vice that leads to death or an innermost village in the jungles of Nigeria. It is simultaneously inconvenient and comforting to receive a middle-of-the-night phone call with Estelle’s voice screaming over gust winds “Really, who was the jackass that thought 125 miles per hour wind is a strong hurricane? Do you remember Hugo? Now that was a great storm.”
As their annual sojourn continued, the ships on which they traveled became smaller and the storms became more violent. Traveling with 50 couples while experiencing amenities only imagined by Princess Grace trumped the larger ships feigning royalty with namesake only while hoisting thousands of overweight Americans dreaming of all-you-can-eat buffets in the pristine all-inclusive resorts of Jamaica and Las Vegas.
“Hurricane Dean is the largest storm to hit Belize since 1931.” Nina Totenberg’s exact and overly articulated “hurricane” caused me to pause and look at my phone, checking the settings and the volume of the ringtone. The phone was silent. NPR is one of the reasons my family will never operate on No News is Good News. Our proclivity towards natural disaster is matched by our ability for selective hearing. Renee Montagne’s prattle is unrecognizable unless it is inclusive of earthquakes or tsunamis.
“Hi, it’s Brian and I heard Belize was experiencing rain and I just wanted to check on everyone. I’ll talk to you later.” My family reserves the title of hurricane for the likes of Hugo and Katrina. Everything else is just a little storm. I thought a simple voicemail would elicit a return phone call and, thus, reduce the Totenberg-induced anxiety. The phone was silent.
“Hurricane Dean has been upgraded to category 5 and is expected to hit Belize . . . “ All things considered, Robert Siegel’s baritone was not aiding. The phone was silent.
For three days, the phone was silent as the journalists from NPR taunted their stories of Hurricane Dean and the impending demise of my parents. Motivated by fear, I refused to turn on News Hour with Jim Lehrer. The phone was silent . . .
No News is Good News? I doubt it. Dismayed that Car Talk would switch their focus from the Ford Fiesta to hurricanes in Belize, I opted for silence and watched my mobile phone.
“The shoes on my feet, I bought ‘em. The clothes I’m wearing, I bought ‘em.” I fumbled my fingers over the phone trying to sacrifice Beyonce signaling Estelle’s call. “Where have you been? Juan Williams has me believing you were swept away in some God-forsaken windstorm.”
Estelle chuckled at my worry. “Lord Jesus, that thing was no Hugo and I told your father if they were going to name a hurricane after him they could have at least picked one that was a little more virile. That thing barely ruffled my sarong. We felt Hugo all the way in the mountains. Now that is a category 5.” I was comforted that the storm chasers were unharmed. “We are having the best time. Seriously, this is the best trip of our lives.”
I smirked, fear resigned and inquired, “How’s the new boat?”
“Oh we had to be evacuated to a larger ship and that was the best thing that has happened since white bread.” There was a pause as Estelle’s voice lowered and she asked, “Brian, do you know who the bears are?”
“The football team?”
“Hmmmm, no.”
“They have animals on the high seas?”
“Lord,” Estelle couldn’t believe my inability to answer her inquiry. “I thought you of all people would know. Bears are large, hairy, gay men.” I paused and wondered if I should reply about my familiarity or if that would lead us into a territory best left undiscussed between a son and his mother. “Anyway, those boys on that allegedly luxury boat got all scared during that windstorm and we all had to be evacuated. All these supposedly ritzy ladies from the west coast were crying and I couldn’t stand another moment of that. Do they not have rain in Los Angeles? So I told the concierge we would go anywhere as long as I didn’t have to see some 60-year old marm with too-long hair in a ponytail answering to the name of ‘Gidget.' Well, we got transfered to The Bear Nation cruise.”
Experiencing a shock greater than any hurricane could every deliver, I asked, “Did anyone else from your boat join, uh, the Bear Nation?”
“Lord no. It’s just me and your father and about two thousand bears. There are Polar Bears. Those are the older gentlemen with white or gray hair. There are the Black Bears and those are the boys who are African-American, Latino or just really, really tanned. There are the Grizzly Bears and they are kinda big, you know, like your uncles. Then there are the Otters. I'm just not sure but they are all real nice and sexy. They are so friendly and they like your father.”
At this moment, I longed for Cokie Roberts to interrupt with a heart-warming tale of volcanic eruption.
“But the bears LOVE me. We have been to parties and those boys can dance. They wanted me to participate in their belly-flop contest but I told them I’m a lady and I don’t get my hair wet in a swimming pool. We’ve had a costume ball and played drag bingo. I had to tell one of my friends just because you can, it doesn’t mean you should wear a cocktail dress. All that hair doesn't look good with sequins. You'd love it. They are all very skilled at karaoke. Tomorrow we are hiking some waterfall and native ruins.”
My need for a Cokie Roberts intervention was diffused and we ended the phone call so Estelle could attend to the shuffleboard court with her new following of various bears and otters. The next day Estelle sent a picture to my e-mail. Amongst several large, hairy, gay men in various means of undress was my mom wrapped in a sarong and wearing a large sun hat. All hand-in-hand as they were climbing rocks in some lush paradise. No News is Good News? Well, only if your family vacation is in an all-inclusive gated resort with no signs of inclement weather.
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